It's Today
by Salchat
Summary: John hasn't seen Rodney all day. And there was cake at lunchtime. Discovering Rodney, miserable and alone in his lab, John goes in, armed with cake and assorted goodies. But will it be enough? Will he run away and get Teyla? Or will he... talk about feelings!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is just a short story which formed in my head over the last couple of days, from my thoughts about next week, when I have one of my three-monthly scans - my risk factor is rather high… Anyway! Apologies for the angst, although it is leavened with humour!**

**Chapter 1**

John strode down the hallway, bouncing slightly as he walked. He resisted the urge to whistle, because there were still a few people about, even at this hour, and John knew that his whistling was particularly tuneless.

Though he wasn't normally one for analysing his feelings, John decided that the best label for his current mood was 'chirpy'. And, he thought, with a spontaneous waggle of his eyebrows, which alarmed a passing botanist, he was chirpy for no particular reason, which somehow felt like a bonus. It had been an averagely good/averagely bad day; some things had gone wrong, some had gone right. Of those that had gone wrong, the worst was a team arriving back through the Gate under heavy fire, but, although there had been injuries, none had been serious. Of the good things, John decided that the best one was sparring with Teyla, or possibly the cake he'd had at lunchtime, which had been strangely pink and slightly gritty, but good nevertheless. And John had got to eat his entire piece undisturbed, because McKay hadn't been there. In fact, thought John, his chirpiness receding slightly, he hadn't seen Rodney all day. John made a quick about-face, having forgotten where he was going anyway, and headed for the mess hall.

oOo

There were a few sandwiches left out, for late night snackers, a couple of bits of alien fruit and some bottles of water; not really what he was after. A clanking sound came from the kitchen; John put his head round the threshold, smiled and then set up a casual slouch against the doorframe. He tried to look lean, hungry and appealing.

"Sandwiches and fruit, Colonel. On the table!" The voice came from inside a huge metal vat, currently receiving a thorough scrubbing.

"Aw, c'mon Marie," John drawled plaintively. "You've got some cake left, haven't you?"

"You had some! I saw you, Colonel!" The voice was amplified threateningly by the close confines of the vat; John was reminded of the Master Sergeant's prowess with her cleavers. But he'd risk it for Rodney's sake.

"It's not for me, it's for Dr McKay!"

The sound of scrubbing stopped, abruptly. The legs, clad in chefs' whites stilled, and the figure emerged and straightened up, streaks of soapy dirt on her face, strands of dark hair dangling limply here and there from her cap.

"Oh... well..." she said, her mouth quirking in a poorly suppressed smile, her cheeks reddening. "I haven't seen Dr McKay today and I always worry when he doesn't come in; he works so hard!"

"Yes, he works very hard," John agreed solemnly. He shook his head, eyes down, aiming for the role of 'concerned friend'. "Too hard, really."

"Well, let me see what I can find!"

The Master Sergeant took a tray from the serving area and whisked about the kitchen, opening fridges and cupboards and depositing an array of tasty items. There were some slices of meat and cheese, some packaged crackers, which John knew were in short supply, a dish of pickled something-or-other, which Rodney had a particular liking for and three pieces of the pink cake. After a flurry of expert knifework, four quarters of an apple-like fruit, cut in layers at right angles and pressed into leaf shapes, were placed decoratively on the meat-and-cheese plate.

"Thanks, that's great!" said John, appreciatively.

The Master Sergeant frowned, her eyes darkening with threat. "You'll see it gets to Dr McKay, won't you?" she said, the knife held easily in her hand, her stance recognisable from any manual on close combat.

John smiled, nervously, his eyes on the knife. "Yes. You have my word on that."

Her expression lightened. "One of the pieces of cake is for you, of course."

He picked up the tray. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He turned to go, but then turned back. "Why are you scrubbing out that pan? You shouldn't have to do that."

"Oh, well, you know, sometimes I like to have the place to myself and... it's satisfying: scrubbing til it really shines!"

"Okay," said John doubtfully and left her to it.

oOo

John entered Rodney's lab, his chirpy aura still surrounding him, the tray balanced (expertly, he thought) on one hand. His eyes fell on his friend and he stopped, his good humour crawling slowly down his body and slinking away across the floor to disappear into a dark corner.

Rodney sat, slumped over, elbows on the bench, one hand holding a radio handset, the other futilely aiming a small screwdriver toward the ceiling. His mouth was tense, thin and flat, with a downward curve at each corner, but it was his eyes that made a lump form in John's throat; heavy-lidded and staring sightlessly, they seemed devoid of hope and life, their usual sparking sky-blue faded as if bleached by the cruelties of life.

John had a split-second's urge to turn and walk away, a response that he was immediately ashamed of, but could have justified by sending in the big guns, i.e. Teyla, because she was good at that emotional crap. Neither his conscience, nor his role as Rodney's very genuine friend, would allow such a cowardly way out, so, his military mind having kicked fully into action, John discarded Strategy One (let someone else deal), and moved straight to Strategy Two. This method could be dressed up using a famous quotation by the Duke of Wellington, 'Always get over heavy ground as lightly as you can', but was fundamentally a simple two-step procedure, consisting of: Step One - feed, and Step Two - pretend everything's fine. Step One was already taken care of in the form of the laden tray. Step Two, John himself used all the time in virtually any situation that involved dealing with his own medical or emotional challenges, so it was comfortable territory; home turf, as it were.

"Hey, Rodney!" John said, bouncing into the room, his chirpiness now entirely feigned. He plonked the tray down on the bench, ignored Rodney's start of surprise and began to itemise his offerings, inventing a wholly spurious tale of derring-do surrounding the 'liberation' of the cake from under the watchful and jealous eyes of the cleaver-wielding Master Sergeant Sanchez. Neither the thrilling tale nor even (and John was really worried now) the cake, raised the slightest hint of interest or amusement in Rodney's expression. He merely set down the handset and screwdriver on the bench and rested his hands in his lap, his eyes flicking over the tray once and then resuming their thousand-yard stare. Step Two of the plan was not proceeding well, but John was determined to give it a good try.

"What'cha doin'?" he asked, perching casually on the edge of the bench.

Rodney's blank gaze fixed itself on the radio. John thought he wasn't going to reply, but he slowly reached out and prodded the handset with one finger.

"Fixing this."

John looked at the handset and then back at Rodney.

"Why?"

"It's broken." No inflection. No clue as to why Dr Genius McKay was 'fixing' an item that had to be the equivalent, for him, of a baby's rattle.

"Don't you have minions to do that kinda thing?"

Rodney closed his eyes and rubbed them, his mouth tensing even more and his throat working convulsively.

"I was doing... all that," he flapped a hand at the rest of the workbench, on which rested a jumble of Ancient artefacts in various stages of disassembly, some rigged up to testing equipment. There were also two laptops open, complex reams of code left on-screen, abandoned cursors blinking with impatience. "But it wasn't working, so... I thought I'd try something simple."

_What wasn't working? _thought John.

Rodney picked up the screwdriver and unscrewed the casing, setting down both halves on the bench.

"Will it take long?"

"Oh, no, I've done it already," he said listlessly. "I thought I might disassemble it again... and put it back together. Maybe."

John began to understand. Sometimes, usually late at night, he visited the armoury. He'd take a weapon, a P90, or maybe an MP5, strip it down, clean it, lube it, reassemble it and put it back. Then he'd take another and do the whole thing again. The familiar, repetitive action was calming and occupied his body and mind at a basic level, the monotony bringing, usually, a measure of peace.

Strategy Two seemed like it was a bust, although, John decided, he'd give Two B a quick go, because, after that he'd have to move on, and Strategy Three was to be avoided, if at all possible. _Avoided like a hive ship at feeding time, _John thought.

So, on with Two B: 'Pretend everything's fine, by being annoying.'

"Okay, you carry on. I'll just be over here, doing whatever." John began to prowl about the lab, stopping here and there to touch this, flick that. He made a full circuit and then loomed over Rodney's shoulder. No reaction. John slouched along the line of the bench, running his fingers around the rim of the meat-and-cheese plate, actually giving the cake a quick prod and then on into the unidentifiable bits and pieces of partially dis- or reassembled Ancient tech. Still no reaction. His eyes reviewed the contents of the bench for something that might withstand an impact. Target selected, he casually brushed his hand over the item and knocked it off the bench. It clattered against the floor and rolled away into a corner.

Rodney merely said, "Pick it up, Sheppard," his tone apathetic.

John duly picked up the artefact, only slightly cracked, _and it must have been like that already_, he assured himself.

So, Strategy Two was a total fail. John stopped prowling, facing the corridor. He could make a break for it, go running to Teyla. _Coward, _said the voice of his conscience. John closed his eyes hard, then opened them again. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then, he contorted his features into a horrendous grimace and, covering his face with both hands, he slowly pulled them down, feeling his skin stretch, his eyes distort into strange shapes and his lower lip drag wetly against his fingers. He wished he had a mirror so that he could appreciate the effect thus created, and meet his own eyes in mutual cringing embarrassment. He was going to have to talk to Rodney. About his feelings.

_Okay, _John thought. _You can do this. _He stood, still facing the door, bouncing slightly on his toes, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, fingers waggling. What was it Teyla had said? He'd asked her, once, how she did it, how she helped people deal with emotional stuff. She had replied (as if speaking to a child, for heaven's sake!), 'Start simply. Ask them how they are or what is wrong. Then listen. Reflect their feelings.' (Reflect? What?) 'And be prepared to share your own feelings, but only if it might be helpful.' _Sheesh! Share feelings? _But it was for Rodney. He'd do it. Now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John crossed the lab, resolutely, hoping the Gate alarm would sound, or the City would be attacked. It didn't and it wasn't. He pulled out the stool next to Rodney and sat down, then made a ninety degree turn so that he faced his friend. Rodney flicked repeatedly at a loose red wire with the tip of the screwdriver, his expression hopeless.

"Rodney. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

_Flick, flick, flick, _went the screwdriver.

"C'mon, this is me, here! 'I'm fine'? You never believe it, coming from me! Why should I believe it, coming from you?"

Rodney shot John a swift, sideways glance. It held a trace of irritation. _Aha! _thought John. _Maybe if I can piss him off enough, we won't have to do the whole feelings thing!_

"Just leave me alone, Sheppard."

"No! I won't!"

"Trust me, you don't want to talk about this." Rodney said, his voice brittle and sharp. "You're better off just running away, as usual!"

That stung. It wasn't as if Rodney requested regular heart-to-heart chats, after all. And this was John really trying, here! But any reaction was better than none; he wouldn't take offence.

"I'm not running away. I'm here and I'm staying; so talk."

The screwdriver stopped flicking. Rodney set it down on the bench, carefully, as if it might explode. He began to speak, his words hard-edged and desperate.

"It's just... I can't do it today! I can't do what I normally do, just carry on with everything, get the job done. I don't know why not, I just can't."

John waited. _Listen. Teyla said listen._

"So, here's the thing," continued Rodney, and then he abruptly broke off and faced John directly. "And I know it's not just me, I know it's the same for everyone, especially those of us who've been here from the beginning! I'm not saying I'm alone in this or different from anyone else!"

John gave a reassuring nod and grimace - was that 'reflecting'? He wasn't sure, but Rodney seemed satisfied.

Rodney's empty gaze had returned to the handset. He sighed and began to speak again, quietly, sadly. "Before we lost Carson, I was afraid, pretty much most of the time, but I learnt to put it to the back of my mind, you know? Right to the back, where it couldn't distract me or anything. Not just fear for myself, but for you, Carson, Elizabeth, everyone. And, you know what it's like, you learn to push it right down and live with it." Rodney paused, staring blankly, his eyes focussed on memories, the fingertips of one hand rolling the narrow shaft of the screwdriver back and forth.

"Only now, it's different; since Elizabeth, since..." Rodney swallowed, took another breath and continued more softly, his voice full of tearing regret. "Since Carson... I..." He stopped, the words stuck in his throat, his jaw clenching and releasing. He took another deep breath and continued, in a rush, his voice choked with emotion. "I can't put it to the back of my mind any more. It's so much more real, it seems so much more likely that one day, any day, one of us will just be gone; me, you, anybody. And it's always there, the fear, the dread, right there, sitting next to me like a big..." His hands waved in illustration and his voice rose to a desperate cry. "A big, black... thing!"

Rodney stopped and stilled, his hands, trembling slightly, fingers outstretched, pressing down on the air in front of him, as if he were trying to pacify his raging emotions, to rein them back in. His fingers closed, his hands drew back and clasped together as if he was trying to give himself comfort. Rodney continued, sounding small and hurt. "So, now I've learnt to live in a different way, with this terrible, constant feeling of dread always present right up there in the forefront of my mind. And, I guess I've surprised myself, because I can do it. I can work and eat and talk and even laugh, because, you know, things are still funny, no matter what. And it's like I've scooped all the horror up..." He mimed, his arms curving under the huge tangle of emotions. "And set it to one side, so it's still there, but separate, like I've drawn a curtain and I can pretend, if I try really hard, then I'm just a normal person, getting on with his life. Well, not normal, because of the genius living in an alien city thing, but, you know..."

Rodney sagged and leant forward over the bench, his head drooping, hands clasped together again.

"Only some days I can't. Some days there's no curtain. I don't know why not. And I can't see a good future; I can't see past the fact that we'll all probably die out here, like Elizabeth, like Carson. Me, you, everyone. And it's overwhelming. 'I am naked in the dark, Sam, and there is no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I begin to see it even with my waking eyes, and all else fades.'" Rodney's mouth flashed quickly with a very small self-deprecating smile, then returned to its former bleakness.

"And my mind..." Rodney laughed, humourlessly. "You know my mind, always busy. I can't stop it searching for a solution, a... a fix, a way out. Round and round in endless circles, like if I can just keep trying, keep thinking, I'll come up with something, to protect us all, to save us, so that no-one else has to be hurt... has to die. Only there is no solution. It's a trap, with no way out. Ever."

John watched his friend and felt a burning inside him and a longing, and a desperate need to do something, but he didn't know what. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap as if they should be holding a weapon and that there should be something he could actively, physically fight. But there wasn't and John admitted to himself that, of the things he could do for Rodney, he was doing the most important of them already; being there, listening. But this time that was not enough. Rodney sighed and John could tell that he was psyching himself up to carry on with his task, such as it was. In a moment he would pick up the radio and continue to take it apart and put it back together. Maybe he'd even get up, fix some coffee, resume his actual work. But all of it would be done blankly, detached, an exercise in endurance, rather than living.

Thoughts churned in John's head; thoughts without labels, without coherence or form. Rodney was right; there were no solutions, there was no magical 'way out'. But there were ways to rein in the panic, to keep the darkness at bay, even when it seemed overwhelming. The first of these, John knew, was just occasionally to be overwhelmed - it was inevitable, unavoidable and you let it happen for a few minutes or hours and then you carried on. Rodney had let himself be subsumed into the darkness for a while, but now he needed something new and, as usual, words log-jammed in John's head and wouldn't form themselves into sentences.

Rodney reached forward to pick up the radio.

"I'm here right now!" John burst out, loud and slightly manic.

Rodney's hand stopped in mid-air and withdrew, slowly. He turned and stared at John, nervously.

"Yes. I can see that," he said, carefully.

"No! I mean..." John ran a hand through his hair, leaving behind the inevitable stylistic chaos. "It's what I say to myself when... you know." He waved a hand at Rodney. "When things seem real bad. It's... it's not much. But sometimes it's all you have."

"I'm here right now," repeated Rodney, thoughtfully.

"Yeah, like, it's now! Today! It's not... whenever... And I think, okay, so maybe tomorrow, or next week, or next month, maybe I'll be gone, or you will, or, well, anything could happen; this is the Pegasus Galaxy, right? But, it's not happening now. And if this is the time we have, right now... then, then we'd better get on and enjoy the hell out of it!"

John was breathing hard, as if he'd been running. He felt like he might be getting through to Rodney, but wasn't sure if he was making sense. Rodney looked at him without speaking, as if expecting more, and John frowned heavily, sweat breaking out on his brow, and glared at the floor, trying to scrape together some more words.

"And, um... I don't just mean 'enjoy the good things in life', I mean, I really appreciate the boring crap too. And even being annoyed about stuff! Like, the length of those requisition forms! I had to fill in a bunch of 'em today and I was getting more and more pissed, 'cos I thought, 'I'm gonna be late for Teyla,' but then I thought, 'Hey, here I am, alive, and not only that, but healthy enough to get pissed at a bunch of stupid forms! Look at me, all living my life and everything!"

John realised he was grinning and waving his hands and probably looked like a maniac. Rodney's lips twitched. John shrugged, self-consciously, ducked his head and mumbled, "I'm not saying it's perfect, but... It's a philosophy, I guess."

There was silence. John looked up to find Rodney, calmly, though quizzically, regarding him, his eyes no longer empty, but contemplative.

"I'm here right now," repeated Rodney.

"Yeah."

"And, more succinctly, 'It's today'."

"Yeah!"

"Well, Confucius had nothing on you," said Rodney, but without any of his usual cutting sarcasm.

John shrugged again.

"No, I like it," said Rodney. "It's simple... grounding. You could meditate to that."

John flinched.

"Or not."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"So... here right now," Rodney said, looking around. "Right now. Here." He closed his eyes, took a breath and imagined hauling all of his thoughts and feelings into the present moment and pegging them down with a large hammer.

He opened his eyes and saw John, his friend, looking like he'd been running from a pack of Wraith; exhausted, dishevelled and sweaty. He was watching Rodney, while doing that lip-chewing thing he did when he was anxious or thinking or bored. His friend. Here. Right now. Rodney lifted up his hand and gave him a small wave.

"Hello!"

"Hi," said John, waving back, his mouth quirking up at one corner.

Rodney's gaze fell to the bench and the tray of food that Sheppard had brought. He frowned. And realised that he'd been enmeshed so deeply in the dark strands of possibility that the present had barely registered. The present, where he was, he realised, hungry, and a concerned friend had brought food; and not just any food, either, Rodney thought, considering the lateness of the hour and the notoriously territorial habits of the kitchen staff. He realised, as he tried to speak, that his mouth was full of cake and that he had a piece in either hand, both half-finished. He swallowed and said, still somewhat cakily: "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said John, taking the third piece of cake as Rodney nudged it toward him.

"Pink, isn't it?" said Rodney.

"S'good." John swallowed his mouthful. "When d'you last eat, McKay?"

"Oh! Um... I don't know." The day had been lost in a thick, heavy fog and Rodney couldn't remember much that had happened, just the burden of his thoughts, dragging him down. He opened the pack of crackers, loaded one with alternating slices of meat, cheese and pickle, and began munching. John got up and made some coffee. Rodney couldn't even remember his last cup. He wondered why he'd been able to take a step back from his fear; what was it that had helped. Was it just talking about it? Having a friend there to really listen? Being able to set out his thoughts and feelings so that they were more organized and could now be filed neatly away? Was it what John had said about just being in the present? Or a combination of those things; and the food, which certainly helped. Rodney picked up a carved, leaf-shaped piece of fruit and studied it carefully. "Almost mathematical in its precision," he murmured appreciatively and then bit it in half.

A mug of coffee appeared in front of him, its rich, bitter, woody scent, spiralling upward. He picked it up and took a sip, wondering if he would be able to keep himself here, in the present, where he and those of his friends who remained were safe; if he would be able to stave off the darkness.

"I suppose," Rodney said, deciding to share his thoughts, "it's something you have to keep working on, like a leaky conduit that has to be patched on an on-going basis."

John stared into his mug of coffee, his eyebrows twitching together slightly.

"I mean, I think it's a path I'll have to take my thoughts down regularly. Maybe it's more like taking a dog for a walk."

John looked even more confused.

"So, I say to myself, 'What is it I'm afraid of losing?' and the answer, of course, is, 'I'm afraid of losing my life, or my friends'."

"We're here now, Rodney."

"Exactly. So, my counterstatement to myself is, 'But you have those things now.' Whereupon, I reply, 'Oh, yes, you're right, I'd better get on and appreciate them, hadn't I?' 'Yes, you had,' replies the smug know-it-all."

Rodney took another slurp of coffee.

"I can set that argument to run, like a little automatic sub-routine, whenever I start to... you know."

"Panic?"

"Become concerned about the future."

"It won't always work."

"No." Rodney got up to pour himself more coffee. He waggled his empty mug at John, but John shook his head.

"Still got some."

Rodney refilled his mug and stood watching his friend.

"You didn't run away," said Rodney.

John looked up, shrugged, embarrassed, as usual.

"You didn't run away and get Teyla. You listened and... and you talked!"

John ducked his head, his hair falling forward, his face hidden in his coffee mug.

"That was probably your quota of words for the week. You won't be able to speak for days."

John chortled into his mug, but still didn't say anything.

"John?" He emerged from the mug, still slightly rabbit-in-the-headlights, obviously afraid Rodney was going to require more than grunts and monosyllables. "Thanks," said Rodney.

"S'okay," said John.


End file.
